


Astray

by pushingcrazies



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Puppies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-27
Updated: 2012-03-27
Packaged: 2017-11-02 14:53:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/370213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pushingcrazies/pseuds/pushingcrazies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“He’s a dog, Sherlock.  Dogs eat dog food.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Astray

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this a few weeks ago, but forgot to post it on my AO3. So, have some sickening fluff.

“What is that?” Sherlock demanded.

John couldn’t contain his smirk as he lounged in his armchair, cuddling the little ball of fur on his lap.  “It’s a puppy, Sherlock,” he said, as though speaking to a small child.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, dropping his coat and scarf onto the nearest flat surface, which just so happened to be the floor.  John didn’t bother to ask where he’d been all day, knowing he probably wouldn’t get a straightforward answer.  “I can see that,” Sherlock told him.  “What is it doing here?”  He flopped down onto the sofa and eyed the puppy with disdain.

“Lestrade spotted it on the M-25 this afternoon.  It was about to get itself killed, so he pulled over and grabbed it and brought it here.  I can’t say I’m particularly skilled with animals, but it seems pretty healthy to me.”

“Where is Lestrade now?” Sherlock asked.  He was trying his damnedest to remain aloof, but he couldn’t take his eyes off the puppy.  John bit back a smile.

“Out getting supplies,” he said.

“He’s going to keep him?” Sherlock was surprised, though John wasn’t sure why.  It wasn’t like this was the first time Lestrade had found a stray animal, neglected and half-dead, and decided to take it home and nurse it back to health.  Of course, the last animal had been far less grateful than this puppy, several times bigger, and answered to the name of “Sherlock Holmes.”

“Yeah, why not?” John told Sherlock.  “I imagine his flat seems a bit empty these days.  A dog’ll keep him company.”  He held up one of the paws to show him.  “Just look at the size of them.  It’s going to be huge.”

Sherlock was sidling closer in spite of himself, though he stayed on the sofa.  “Him.”

“Sorry?”

“The dog,” Sherlock explained.  “You keep calling him and “it” but he is clearly male.”

“Does it matter?”  He flipped the dog over so he could better scratch his belly.  The poor thing was still rather frightened, though he was gradually warming up to John.  Sherlock’s unfamiliar voice had made him start trembling again, but John was slowly getting him calm.

“Of course it matters.  You should always call something by its proper title.”  Sherlock inched even closer.  John could no longer contain his grin.

“Do you want to hold it…him?” he asked.

Sherlock scoffed.  “Don’t be ridiculous.”  He yawned.  “Do we have any food in the fridge?”

Ah, so it was going to be one of _those_ days.  The ones where Sherlock stuffed his face with everything in sight and then slept for a good ten to twenty hours.  He wondered how long Sherlock had gone without food and sleep this time.  “There should be some leftover curry.”

Sherlock disappeared into the kitchen.  The smell of reheating curry made the puppy forget his timidity, and he wriggled out of John’s arms and inched his way over to the door, sniffing the air like mad.  He really was a cute little thing, all fluffy black and white fur and overlarge paws.

Sherlock caught sight of the dog, who did what any frightened puppy would do when confronted with such a stern face: he peed.  Sherlock sighed, grabbed the paper towels, and was cleaning up the mess before John so much as moved.  John stared.  Sherlock never cleaned, especially when it came to stuff he didn’t want around.  Yet here he was, in his expensive suit, cleaning up after a shy dog.  The puppy cowered at Sherlock’s approach, and even he could not be heartless in the face of such submissive behaviour.  He patted the dog’s head, ignoring the way it flinched away from him.  He scooped up the poor puppy and carried him into the kitchen.  “John?”

John hoped his strangled laughter didn’t show in his voice when he responded.  “What?”

“Can dogs have curry?”

John leaped out of his seat and was halfway to the kitchen in the blink of an eye.  “Don’t you dare feed him that.”

“What can we give him, then?  He’s too skinny.”

Sherlock was opening cupboards and rooting around with fervour, the puppy cradled in one arm, looking frightened to death.  If Sherlock wasn’t careful, he’d end up with a pee-soaked shirt.”

“Lestrade’s coming back soon with dog food.  He can wait until then,” John assured him.

Sherlock snorted.  “He’s not going to want to eat that stuff.  He needs real food.”

“He’s a _dog_ , Sherlock.  Dogs eat dog food.”

Sherlock found a packet of jerky in the cupboard nearest the fridge.  He promptly sat down in the middle of the floor, heedless of the chair right behind him and tore open the packet.

“Sherlock, give me the dog. You’re going to spoil him and then Lestrade is going to be angry.”

“Lestrade is in the habit of spoiling his strays,” Sherlock said, staring levelly at John.  He knew what John had been thinking earlier, then, about Sherlock being like a stray that Lestrade had rescued from the streets.

John sighed and took a bit of jerky out of the packet to give to the puppy, who snatched it out of his hand and gulped it down with gusto.  “I didn’t mean it like that,” he mumbled.

“It’s not an unfair comparison,” Sherlock allowed, giving the dog more meat.  “Though I believe I will prove more useful in the long run.”

“I dunno,” John said impishly.  “Have you ever licked Lestrade’s face clean?”

The two men sat on the floor of the kitchen, feeding the dog anything they thought would be digestible, until he fell asleep in the middle of chewing on a carrot.  Sherlock carried him into the living room, his curry cold and forgotten, and lay down on the couch with him.

By the time Lestrade returned, Sherlock had joined the puppy in slumber and John was eating his dinner in the kitchen, enjoying the quiet.  Neither man nor puppy stirred as Lestrade approached them, the softest and most content smile on his face.  Unaware of John’s prying eyes, Lestrade bent down and placed a kiss first on the puppy’s forehead, then on Sherlock’s.  They both remained asleep.


End file.
